by Conrad Jones
“We don’t want to interfere with the safe return of the children, Minister, but we want to follow up on the Moroccans’ business interests, and stop them operating within our shores.”
“Good show, Major, carry on,” the Minister ended the call as abruptly as he’d begun. The kitchen was long and fitted with upper and lower dark oak units. He walked to the coffee cupboard and opened the door, switching on the kettle with his spare hand.
“What was that about?” Hayley asked.
“John is making waves and irritating people,” the Major smiled as he removed a jar of Nescafe.
“I bet that they don’t complain to his face, do they?” she tried a smile again.
“Not very often,” the Major smiled too. He grabbed two cups and held them up. “You want one?”
“Does he know where the twins are?” she folded her arms across her chest, holding herself for reassurance. She looked like she had as a young girl when her tortoise had died. The Major had told her that it had gone back to the jungle to visit its family, but she’d seen through the lie. Naturally, the Major wanted to protect his daughter from the pain, as any father would.
“No, Hayley, but I think that we can be assured that he’s trying his hardest to find out,” he looked at his cell phone again thoughtfully. He opened the back door and stepped out into the night. “I’m going to call him, I’ll be two minutes.” The Major stabbed the speed dial number that would link him to John Tankersley, but the line was completely dead.
Chapter Thirty
The Prison Bus
Grace indicated and then turned at the traffic lights, keeping a safe distance behind the Honda Blackbird that they’d been following from the railway station. They’d waited patiently as the fire engines arrived and began to spray thousands of gallons of water into the burning building, creating towers of boiling steam which spiralled upward into the night sky. Eventually a white prison bus was allowed to leave the police compound, and the suspect motorcyclist had followed its progress.
The red, amber and green of the traffic lights were reflected in the rainwater that was pooling on the roads. The motorcycle was still tailing the white prison van which was loaded with the prisoners from the police station cells, and rainwater sprayed from the bike’s fat back tyre as it accelerated away. Tank pointed to a brown signpost that was fixed below the main road signs.
“The signpost said that Risley Remand Centre is four miles away, they must be taking the prisoners from the cells there,” Tank said.
“That would make sense,” Grace nodded.
“If they’re going to try to spring Alfie Lesner, then they need to do it soon,” Tank commented.
The prison bus had turned down a tree-lined expressway, and it was approaching a small roundabout. The stretch of road was wide, but unlit, and the trees offered a myriad of hiding places for a potential hi-jack. Suddenly the motorcyclist dropped the bike down a gear and twisted open the throttle, accelerating the machine at incredible speed, and overtaking the white bus. He guided the two-wheeled machine around the island and took off at speed down the right hand exit.
“The tail has disappeared,” Grace said.
“It could be show time,” Tank commented as he watched the motorbike roar off into the distance.
“This is the perfect place for an ambush,” Grace nodded and she slowed down and pulled the vehicle into the verge. They were five hundred yards behind the prison van as it reached the traffic island.
A set of headlights appeared from the first junction, and a small salon car pulled out into the road directly in front of the van, blocking the exits. The brake lights illuminated as the prison bus slammed on the anchors, trying desperately not to plough into the vehicle on the roundabout. Grace switched the lights off and brought the Shogun to a standstill. Tank scanned the area with night sights, trying to second guess what was going to happen next.
“There’s movement in the trees to the left,” he said, passing the sights to Grace.
“It’s a digger, and it’s headed straight for the prison van,” she pulled her Glock nine millimetre from its holster, and readied the vehicle for action.
“Wait a minute Grace,” Tank put his hand on her arm and squeezed it gently. She looked surprised, as it was not like Tank to miss the opportunity for a fight.
“Someone has gone to an awful lot of trouble to spring Alfie Lesner, I vote we wait and see who it is, and where they’re going to take him. They could lead us straight to the twins.”
Grace was uneasy with allowing the situation to progress unchecked, but she could see the sense in what he was saying. The twins were the priority, and so she unwillingly slid the pistol back into its holster and watched events unfold. A huge yellow JCB trundled out of the tree line onto the road and its giant back wheels spun in the mud as it dropped onto the tarmac. The gigantic metal bucket, which was attached to the front of the digging machine, began to rise as it neared the side of the prison van, and it smashed into the passenger side in an earth-shattering broadside. The metal teeth that lined the edge of the bucket sliced through the driver’s cab, and the rear container simultaneously, and the force of the impact rocked the prison bus onto two wheels. It shook violently and almost tipped over completely. There was a second or two of silence before the digger reversed slightly, readying itself to ram the prison van a second time. The sound of men screaming drifted to them on the night air, as the prisoners inside the bus began to panic. They were pinned inside their Perspex prisons, with nowhere to run.
“Are we just going sit and watch this?” Grace asked. She was itching to stop the attack.
“We need to follow Alfie Lesner to the Moroccans, as long as no one gets hurt, then we shouldn’t get involved,” Tank said.
“What about the prisoners in that bus?”
“They’re not our priority, Grace, what’s the matter with you?”
He didn’t look at her as he spoke, and he carried on watching through the night sights. Two men were getting out of the saloon car that they had used as a roadblock, and they started running to the back of the prison van. A huge gaping rent appeared in the side of the prison container as the JCB struck again, and the vehicle tilted dangerously, threatening to tip over. The driver of the prison bus opened the door and jumped out of the stricken vehicle, trying to avoid the deadly metal teeth that were piercing the cab. His face was bloodied, cut by shards of flying glass. He was not a real police officer. He was a community police volunteer, employed by the police department to drive vehicles to and from mechanical services, and body repair shops. With most of the force deployed to Delamere Forest in search of the twins, he’d offered to drive the prison bus to the nearby remand centre. He staggered as he ran away from the scene as fast as his legs would carry him, but he couldn’t out run a bullet. A volley of automatic gunfire rang out and the part time police officer dropped onto the road mortally wounded. Two fat nine-millimetre slugs had punctured his back, splintering his ribs and ripping lung tissue to shreds. He managed to get up onto all fours, crawl a short distance, desperate to escape with his life, but a second volley stopped him in his tracks, and his body collapsed twitching in the gutter. Blood pooled around him and began to wash away with the rainwater down a storm drain.
“Now we have to get involved,” Tank shook his head at the cruel shooting. The part time police officer was unarmed and running away from the scene. He was no threat to the hijackers, and his death was unnecessary. Tank felt a tinge of guilt for reacting too late, and he could tell from the look in Grace’s eyes that she thought so too.
Grace flicked on the lights and gunned the engine, and the vehicle lurched forward. Tank lowered the window and leaned out, aiming his nine millimetre as they hurtled toward the stricken van. Raindrops crashed into his face, feeling more like small pebbles than water droplets because of the speed. The men from the saloon were firing their weapons at the rear door lock, and jagged holes appeared in the white metal as the bullets ripped through the prison bus.
It appeared to Grace that they were not too concerned who was on the other side of the metal as the bullets drilled through it. They were so taken with their own task that they didn’t see the taskforce vehicle approaching until it was too late. One of the men grabbed at the rear door and he wrenched it open, while the second man tried to scramble inside. Tank closed one eye and lined up the sights. He squeezed the trigger twice and the Glock kicked in his hand. The first bullet ricocheted off the prison bus, and sparks flew through the air. The shot alerted the two bandits to the presence of the speeding vehicle, and they turned toward it a split second too late. Tank’s second shot smashed into the chest of one man, lifting him from his feet and slamming him into the prison bus. He slid down as his legs buckled, leaving a red smear on the white metal. His colleague aimed his nine-millimetre Uzi sub machinegun at the Mitsubishi. It was the weapon, which was used to slay the volunteer police officer. Tank squeezed the trigger again and the bullet smashed into the bandit’s right eye. The back of his head exploded like a ripe melon, spraying the bus with grey matter, and bloody mucus.
“The prisoners are escaping,” Grace shouted as she approached the traffic island. They could see arms and legs clawing at the jagged split in the bus, ripping the hole wider and wider, so that they could scramble out of it.
“Get me around the other side of the van,” Tank shouted back to her. The heavens opened and rain hammered down against the windscreen. The road was wet and sheen in the headlights as they speeded past the prison van. Grace had to swerve violently to avoid the saloon car which was still blocking the road. A prisoner dropped from the shattered bus onto the road, directly in front of the speeding Mitsubishi. Grace stamped on the brake. The tyres squealed and the rear end slid across the wet road as the black Shogun went into a spin. Grace twisted the steering wheel full lock to try to stop the skid, but the momentum was too great. The Mitsubishi slammed into the kerbstone with a sickening bump, and Tank was thrown against the dashboard. His head cracked off the plastic and his Glock was thrown into the foot well.
“Are you okay?” Grace glanced at him. There was a deafening roar and she twisted around to see where it was coming from. The huge yellow JCB had disengaged from the attack on the prison van, and it was reversing across the traffic island at speed.
“Move it!” Tank shouted as he realised what the JCB driver had in mind. The yellow digger stopped and there was an audible crunch as the driver selected the forward gear. “Now, Grace.”
The Shogun juddered as Grace’s foot slipped off the clutch and the vehicle stalled. The JCB lurched forward and began to gain speed as it hurtled toward them.
“Get out!” Grace shouted. She realised that there wasn’t time enough to start the vehicle. The JCB driver lowered the jagged bucket so that it was level with Grace’s window, and the huge machine accelerated toward her.
Tank opened the passenger door and rolled out onto the grass verge. He stopped for a fraction of a second to recover the Glock, but he couldn’t grasp it in time. Grace swung her feet out of the Shogun, and she dived to the back of the vehicle. The digger crashed into the Mitsubishi and almost removed the roof with the force of the impact. The teeth sheared through the door pillars and the windscreen as if they were made from rice paper, and Grace was showered with shattered glass. She placed her hands over her eyes to protect them as the digger engine screamed above her. The machine shuddered as the driver slammed the JCB into reverse, and a second wave of twisted metal and splintered glass shards fell onto her.
“Give me your hand!” Tank screamed over the deafening noise of the JCB. The yellow machine backed off twenty yards to ready for a second charge. Grace looked up and reached out a bloodied hand. The digger’s engine roared again and with a grinding of gears, the JCB thundered toward them a third time. Tank grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her to her feet.
“Run for the trees,” he shouted over the engine noise as they cleared the rear of the Shogun. Tank dived headlong into the trees, carrying Grace with him, seconds before the digger smashed through the wrecked Mitsubishi and bashed it over onto its roof. The vehicle flipped as if it was a toy and it crashed against a sapling, snapping it before it finally came to a standstill.
“Give me your weapon,” Tank dragged Grace further into the trees as the JCB reversed clear of the shattered Mitsubishi. He reached under her jacket and removed the Glock from her holster. The yellow digger roared again as the driver tried to pinpoint them in the tree line, but he couldn’t locate them, and so he switched on the machine’s headlights. The lights were dazzling and Tank was left exposed as the shadows disappeared.
“Move Grace!”Tank hissed as the huge machine began to pick up speed as it careered toward them. There were fine rivulets of blood running down her face, mixing with the rainwater that soaked them.
“Split up,” Grace shouted. She turned and ran to the left, while Tank ran to the right, weaving through the branches as fast as his legs would carry him. The tactic confused the JCB driver enough to give them a few valuable seconds, and he swerved the machine to the right picking Tank as his target. Tank stopped behind a large tree trunk, raised the Glock and fired three times. The bullets pinged off the huge metal bucket without leaving as much as a dent in the thick steel. The driver raised the bucket higher still, narrowing the angle of the shot, and protecting him from the nine millimetre bullets. Tank darted to the right again, tying to make himself a moving target, but the JCB was closing the gap between them quickly. It bounced in the air as it hit the kerbstones and mounted the verge, and the bucket felled half a dozen trees without losing any momentum. Tank ran deeper into the trees, illuminated by the JCB’s headlights. Tree branches scratched his hands and face, and a small gash opened over his left eye. Blood trickled down his face and into his eye, carried by the rain, blurring his vision and impairing his aim. He could hear trees groaning and cracking as the huge machine pursued him relentlessly, and from the increasing noise of the diesel engine, Tank could tell that he was losing the race.
A gunshot rang out and suddenly there was only half as much light as there was before. Tank side stepped a sycamore tree and bolted in the opposite direction to which he’d been running. He risked a glance over his shoulder, costing him vital seconds. One of the headlights had been shot out, and Tank figured that Grace had recovered his weapon from the Shogun, and had stalked the vehicle from the shadows. The change of direction slowed the digger’s progress and Tank gained a few precious seconds to aid his escape from the massive machine.
He turned and raised the nine-millimetre, closing one eye and steadying his hand, he squeezed the trigger twice. The first bullet disappeared into the darkness but the second one found its target, and the remaining headlight was blasted to smithereens. He ran toward the roundabout, away from the sound of the roaring diesel engine, but the gargantuan digger kept on coming. The tree line was thinning out as he ran at full pelt, and he was almost clear of the bruising tree limbs and branches, when he caught his right foot beneath an exposed tree root. His own momentum flung him headlong, and his head struck the base of a chestnut tree, stunning him and sending bolts of white light through his brain.
The JCB thundered through the tree line, and the noise of the huge engine and the splintering wood was deafening. The driver was steering the machine blindly, following a course that would bring him back onto the road. The volume increased tenfold as the machine neared him, and Tank tried to find his feet but concussion had dulled his reactions. His head span, and he felt dizzy. A wave of nausea swept through him, as the digger threatened to overwhelm his position, and crush him to a pulp. He closed his eyes and waited for the inevitable.
Two gunshots rang out from the melee, barely audible over the noise of the approaching digger. Tank opened his eyes and through the darkness, he could see a huge shadow looming, parting trees with ease, and crushing everything in its path. It was yards away when it swerved to the left and the brakes let out a high-pitched squeal that hurt his ears. The digger
ground to a halt noisily five yards to his right, and the engine spluttered as it was turned off. The driver was sat slouched at the controls and as the cab door opened, his body tumbled out. It bounced off the huge rear wheels before crashing into the undergrowth next to Tank. The dead man stared sightlessly at him, and blood ran from his nostrils.
“Are you okay?” Grace asked as she stepped off the rear of the digger. She had waited until the machine paused to change direction, and then climbed up onto the rear arm of the machine. Two well aimed bullets had shattered the driver’s spinal column and sprayed his brain stem all over the cab windows.
“Fine, I was waiting for you,” Tank moaned, trying to make light of his near demise.
“Ah yes, the old decoy trick was it?” she smiled as she climbed down.
“That’s the one; you remember it from training right?”
“Of course, split up, make several targets instead of one, and then decoy and destroy.”
“Correct, I was the decoy.”
“Okay, so where does bashing your head on a tree trunk come into it?”
“I was improvising.”
“You’ve got a bump on your head, but it doesn’t look too bad,” Grace ran a thumb over the swelling, and Tank winced at the pain.